


Choices

by inquisitor_tohru



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Demon Deals, Demon Sex, F/M, Mild Smut, Moral Ambiguity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-15 06:16:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16057244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inquisitor_tohru/pseuds/inquisitor_tohru
Summary: Trevelyan impresses Imshael when she suggests her own deal.





	Choices

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tempered_rose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempered_rose/gifts).



"Whatever is the lot of humankind

I want to taste within my deepest self."

- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,  _Faust: Part 1_

 

Inquisitor Trevelyan was a woman of impeccable taste. Imshael had known it when he’d tasted her blades, coated with a clever mixture of poisons - each one deadly in its own right - reminiscent of the concoction mortals named the _Quiet Death._ It was why he had not been surprised at her answer when, true to his nature, he’d offered the lady her pick of power, wealth, or virgins.

“You, Imshael.” He watched with amusement as the former Seeker’s features twisted themselves into an arrangement of horror and disbelief, and the Inquisitor had rolled her eyes.

“I don’t want another Haven. We need _all_ the help we can get.”

“Inquisitor, I pray you think this through.” The Seeker wrung her hands. “Skyhold is not _like_ Haven. We can survive. There is no need to bargain with de-”

 _“Choice. Spirit.”_ The words slipped by his lips almost without his realising. Centuries of being equated with common desire demons had become so tiresome. He didn’t rely on something filmy and sheer to draw people towards him. Nor did he entrap them in pretty illusions that, quite frankly, lacked the richness and the complexity of tangible experiences. Illusions that were themselves _filmy and sheer,_ able to be ripped apart by the smallest germ of doubt. If she chose to accept his deal, the Inquisitor wouldn’t merely win some make-believe battle with Corypheus.

No - what Imshael offered those who approached him was the opportunity to make a real _choice._

“Cassandra,” the Inquisitor spoke softly, “I am tired of surviving. I want to _win._ ”

Imshael knew what was left unsaid. That she wanted to win, _whatever the cost._ This one knew that power always came with a price, and she was willing to offer her pound of flesh. _Literally_ , if it came to it. That was, after all, how wars were won. He had seen it time and time again, century after century.

But that was not all that was left unsaid.

 

The first time she came to him, it was a welcome distraction. Skulking the corridors of Skyhold provided ample opportunity to strike bargains with ambitious lords and ladies, anxious mages, purposeless templars… Enjoyable, in its way. Draining the life from Michel de Chevin had been even sweeter. But it was all business.

There was nothing business-like about the way Inquisitor Trevelyan clawed at the skin beneath his feathered robes, or the way she hissed as he gripped her thigh and pushed her up against the tower wall. She was not the first, nor would she be the last - something she knew and, more importantly, accepted. Jealousy might have its uses for a desire demon, he supposed, but he’d always considered it to be one of the _baser_ emotions, and one that he didn’t care to deal with unless it was absolutely necessary. There were other, much more _interesting,_ emotions.

He saw some of them in the Inquisitor’s eyes that night in the tower, flickering in tandem with the mark on her left hand as his fingers curled and slid inside her.

 

The second time, he went to her. He did not take his familiar human form. Imshael didn’t remember his true spirit form, but he thought that this was something close to it, or at least as close to it as he could manifest in the physical realm. The Inquisitor welcomed the shadowy tendrils into her bedchamber as easily and eagerly as she had done his human form. For some reason, that pleased him. Most likely, it was the novelty of the experience - perhaps next time he would engage her in the Fade.

“Imshael.” Inquisitor Trevelyan spoke in no particular direction, for his presence filled the room like a soulrot bomb seeping into every cobwebbed corner.

_Yes?_

“Do you...enjoy this?” He marvelled as her back arched in response to his shadowy touch, silken sheets rippling beneath her.

_Do you think I’d be here if that wasn’t the case?_

“I don’t know,” she confessed. “It wasn’t part of our deal. It’s not a...transaction. What do _you_ get out of this?”

 _Everyone has desires._ His being rippled around her with the sheets, drawing out soft moans between the sharp inhales, and her eyelashes fluttered as she neared her climax. _Even spirits. We are not defined solely by the bargains we make._

Her breathing slowed as she slumped back into her pillows, that one particular desire sated for the time being. And once again, he sensed the complexity of her competing desires. Every now and then, he would meet a human - or elf, dwarf, qunari - with such intoxicating conflict raging beneath the surface. It made their choices all the more satisfying.

 

The night Imshael approached Inquisitor Trevelyan in the Fade, he found her brooding. In her dreamscape, he could pick out the faces of various individuals he’d encountered in Skyhold - not just encountered, but _bargained_ with. And _her_ guilt was etched on each of their faces.

“I thought you were better than this,” he said, assuming his human form for the time being. Ordinarily he would have blended in with the rest of the crowd - but this was the Inquisitor’s dream. “They made their own choices, just as you made yours.”

 _“Because_ of mine,” she amended. “I led you to them. But you’re right - you didn’t force their hands, and neither did I. And yet...I _am_ human after all.” She laughed bitterly, and Imshael once again heard what was unsaid.

_I am not like Corypheus, and I am not like you._

Humans were such bizarre, fascinating creatures. Their lives were fleeting, and so many chose to spend them suffocated by their own guilt.

“Don’t misunderstand me, Imshael. I do not _regret_ the choice I made. I still think it was the right one.” Even if he hadn’t been looking into her eyes just then, he knew it to be true. The sea of doomed faces around them vanished. “Are you here...why I think you’re here?”

“Yes. If you can handle it.” The laugh that escaped her lips this time was not bitter.

“Last week I was accosted by a spider the size of a castle. I think I can handle it.”

And, having already begun the transformation, Imshael smiled.


End file.
